The One You Love
Whitney-Faith Smith
1.
I, in a bed lying
and waiting,
in sickness propped up
as if I thought
He was coming
to give me help
in the healing, to raise
from imperfection what could
be made whole by Him. In this room,
the sun’s rays slip from view.
Darkness chased light.
Night has slithered
within me.
2.
Black, can’t move,
hard stone against my back,
suffocating, blind,
the smell of myrrh.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
“Come out!”
Immediately my swaddled
feet strike the dirt.
No sight to guide me.
As if the rope of the
high priest were around
my waist, out of death I am
drawn.
“Take off the grave clothes
and let him go.”
Warm hands touch me;
light.
Tomb behind me
I see the Son.